Chapter Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
Preacher scrolls. Reads the comments. Regrets everything.
Jack
I couldn’t concentrate on the service. I take off my vestments as soon as I can and shut myself in my office. Then I get out my phone, ignoring my messages, and for the first time I really look at Dixie’s social media.
She’s posted 846 times and has 450,000 followers.
Dixie Pearl.
Musician
Country singer
MEET MY PREACHER MAN.
A finger emoji points to her Linktree. I skip that. Some things I still don’t want to know.
She only has three Instagram Highlights, the stories that she’s chosen to keep on her profile permanently. Music. Life in a Small Town. Tour.
Mostly, it’s just post after post of Dixie singing. They’re clips, pieces and not the whole song, but they all have captions.
Wrote this country love song about a preacher. Oops. Y’all think I should release it or repent first?
Not a love song. Just a song about someone who feels like coming home… Okay maybe it’s a love song. Should I release it?
Just a little hymn I wrote at 2:00 a.m. in someone else’s bed. Send this song to someone who makes you feel the same way. Not me catching feelings for a preacher like it’s a Hallmark movie. Here’s the theme song. Let me know if I should put it on the soundtrack.
She must have laughed herself sick when I told her I wanted our life together to have a soundtrack because she’s already written one.
She certainly did it better than I ever could: the curiosity, the awe, the excitement and the rush of feelings and the certainty that this is something special.
And now we’ve reached the end of the movie, the part where THE END flashes up on the screen and the credits start rolling.
It isn’t like I didn’t see it coming.
A voice like Dixie’s? It was only a matter of time before someone in Nashville pulled their head out of their backside to make her an offer. Still, hearing it out loud hits harder than I expect.
She didn’t come to the memorial service.
I’d have seen her, even in the back where she likes to sit.
That’s the pew for the sinning backsliders, she claims, the ones who aren’t Jesus’s besties.
I’ve had to bite my lip to hold back the preacher part of me who wants to promise her that there’s plenty of love to go around and she’s welcome in every pew.
I can be too intense when faith comes up.
I have it, and yeah, I want everyone else to have it, too. It’s a gift and gifts are for sharing.
I skip the doughnuts and coffee that are in full swing over in the hall.
Instead, I slip back into our house and listen.
She must’ve been a cicada in a former life because she’s almost never silent.
She can buzz for hours and, man, is she loud.
Sure enough, I hear humming coming from the back bedroom she’s “using for its closet space.”
She’s packing. My heart sinks. I almost turn around so I can pretend for just a little while longer that I don’t know for sure she’s leaving.
“Hey,” she says, real casual. “They want me to come back to Nashville this week. Cut a demo. Talk touring schedules. Sign for real.”
And just like that my belief in Maybe We Could Work dies. It’s an ugly, quick death.
“That’s good. That’s… That’s great, Dixie.”
She gives me a smile like it costs her something.
This is all so wrong.
Still, I say the right things. Proud of you. You earned it. You deserve this. Then I go outside and split a half dozen logs I don’t need to split. The muscles in my shoulders burn, but they’re the sacrifice to keep my hands busy.
I’m out there for ages and I’m almost out of wood when I hear her daddy’s voice cutting through the open bedroom window. She must have put his call on speaker, probably because she’s still packing. He isn’t happy.
I put the ax down so I can hear better, hating myself for it.
“Tell your preacher boyfriend I said hallelujah and goodbye,” he says.
Knowing Dixie, I’m betting that the muffled sounds she makes are mostly curses.
“…no, Dad, he’s not some hillbilly preacher with a savior complex.”
More cursing. Something slams.
I don’t catch what Hank says, but he isn’t happy. Is, in fact, unhappy enough that he’s called her from the road just hours after talking to her here.
“He’s not— Dad, that’s not fair.”
“…fixer-upper preacher weighing you down when you’re finally getting traction.”
Yeah, that part’s plenty clear.
“He’s been good to me.”
A pause.
“…they all are at first. But how’s that gonna work when he’s there in small-town Tennessee and you’re on the road?”
“It’s not that simple. I want—”
“…not made for that life. You’re a stage girlie, all the way through. Don’t toss all your work aside.”
“So now I’ve worked to get where I am?…No! You don’t get to talk about him like that.”
The next pause is so long that I think they’ve finished. It’s not a win, but maybe I can count it as a draw—or at least not as a loss. She did stick up for me.
I’m still in love with her and I’ll never be over her.
It turns out Hank isn’t finished. He’s not letting this be.
“There’s no future for you with a man like that. I’m trying to keep you focused. You want this record deal or not?”
She does. We both know that.
“…I already feel like I’ve ruined something here.”
I shouldn’t be listening. I go back to stacking wood and remind myself that I was never going to be her Nashville life.
Just a detour on the way to somewhere bigger.
A speed bump on her way to Nashville. Of course, I’m letting her go because I’m not going to be the person who takes her dream from her.
I stand there until her voice goes quiet and then I pick up another log.
Set it on the stump.
Raise the ax and split it clean through.
Come to me, all you who are weary…
The verse settles into my chest like it always does.
…and I will give you rest.
I don’t know if she believes in anything close to rest, but I’ll give it to her if I can—carry everything she’ll let me pick up. But I won’t ask her to stay. Some things you let go of, even when you love them.
* * *
We eat dinner together like nothing happened.
It’s her turn to cook, so we have Cup Noodles and banana bread, with cupcakes from a box mix for dessert. Dee’s teaching her to bake. It’s a work in progress. We don’t talk much. Just what Georgia Peach got up to, the wedding I’m doing Saturday, the bridge Dixie’s been messing with for weeks.
“You okay?” she asks when we finish eating.
“I’m fine.”
I start cleaning up, stacking dishes in the sink. Then I feel her behind me.
When I turn, she steps into me.
Her hands flatten against my chest, then slide up—over my collarbone, around the back of my neck. I wrap my fingers around her wrists before she pulls away.
“Jack,” she says. “I don’t want to feel like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like if I leave, I’m walking away from something that matters.”
I should say something steady. Something comforting. I don’t.
I kiss her.
First it’s just my lips brushing hers, and then it’s more. Every nerve in my body fires up. She makes a sound in the back of her throat—half gasp, half growl—and presses against me like she’s thinking to crawl inside my skin. Me, too, baby. Me, too.
“One more time, Dixie.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good idea.”
Her hands grab my butt and yank me closer.
I walk her backward. We’re all over each other. Her legs slot between mine, her hands push through my hair, the nails biting enough to make me grunt. It’s like high school or the back seat of a car. Any minute now there’ll be a knock on the door or the windows will steam up and we’ll have to stop.
The moment we come together, everything ignites. One second, we’re talking, the next I’m wrecked.
Touching her feels so good. The curve of her waist under my hands, the hot silk of her skin, those freckles that start under her jaw and trail across her shoulder. One breath of her and I’m gone.
I pull her tighter against me. Half a sentence spills out. One more time. And then let’s—
“Oh, yeah. Let’s.” She pushes up on her tiptoes to reach my mouth. There are other words, rough sounds, nothing we should say out loud. Unlike the other times I’ve held her, I know this is the last time.
I shove my hand deep into her hair.
Stay.
I toe off my boots. She yanks her shirt over her head.
This Dixie is just mine. Her hungry eyes and impatient fingers. The sexy, sarcastic songwriter turns into a sweet, hot woman wrapped around me.
This isn’t casual. She’s mine. And she’s beautiful, all soft curves and wicked dimples.
She pulls my shirt over my head, her fingers skating down my chest. I spin her, pin her back to the wall, and kiss the side of her neck while her hips arch into mine. She’s gasping, needy, and I’m half out of my mind wanting her.
I need more from her. I don’t care if she’s made up and dressed up, I always want her. No matter how close I get, it’s not enough.
Maybe this is why people hook up so often. This need to connect, to get lost in someone else. I’ve never felt it before.
I’ve always liked sex. It feels good, but more than that it makes me feel close to my partner. That’s the best part. I had a girlfriend before Dixie and I cared for her. But we grew apart and split, and I carried on fine. I can’t imagine losing this. Losing Dixie.
“Bedroom,” I grunt.
She shakes her head. “Right here. No more talking.”
She kicks her jeans off. Her bra goes next, then she hooks her fingers in her panties and teases them down.
When she gets naked, my brain goes offline.
I kissed her in the kitchen because we only have so much time.
I’m not wasting one second of what we have left.
I need to memorize each inch of her, like I could forget.
Since she ordered me not to talk, I end our not-conversation by slinging her over my shoulder and carrying her toward the bedroom.
“Jack! What are you doing?” I can hear the smile in her voice, though. “You’re not listening to me!”
She smacks my butt and I nip her back.